


Ribbons

by Measured



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hair Brushing, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-11-09 06:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: She ran the brush through his tangle of hair. He closed his eyes past the memories that surfaced. His mother singing a song of her people. It had been a long time since anything of the past but pain had resurfaced. Maybe even her hands had healing powers, maybe her skills were beyond staves.





	Ribbons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spincontroller](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=spincontroller).



> I took "Rutger's Hair" as a literal prompt and not just a username. For Via, since I promised them ages ago that I'd write them some fic.
> 
> Given the character, it should be no surprise that there's canon-typical blood and gore.
> 
> Cottoncandy_bingo: trust.
> 
> Thanks to ChibiStarlye for betaing.

Rutger wiped the blood from his cheek. His sleeves were so stained with rust that it left dark smears across his face, until he was dirtier than when he started. So be it; this was war, and war wasn't elegant. At the edge of the ruins they'd bedded down in, no one sought him out. It was just him and his blade, a glint of blood-stained silver in the moonlight. The last remains of stone walls provided a guard, for Rutger never trained where his back could be exposed. He had too many scars from counterattacks he hadn't dodged. Most of his tribe hadn't been so lucky. Their screams would live with him, in every other thought, in every nightmare, waking or not. Sleeping or awake, it was no matter. The ghosts of his people always called out for vengeance. With his sword, he would sate their need for retribution and lay to rest their souls.

The sound of steps on gravel made him turn a quick arc, his sword at the ready.

"There you are. I've been looking the entire camp for you. I even went to the _stables_ and _kitchens_ ," she said. She tossed her long blonde hair indignantly, shuddering at some unseen indignity.

"And even they were less frightening than _this_. As an heir to the house of Rigley, I cannot let this stand. Are you trying to hide as a thicket with that rat's nest?" Clarine said.

Rutger turned on her, silent, with his lips curved in a slight sneer.

"Yes, that makes you look quite elegant, like a darkly romantic hero, but the _hair_." She shook her head. "It just won't do."

Clarine reached into her white, embroidered bag that she kept at her side. Her purple knee-length dress was untainted by blood, or even dust. How she managed to remain pristine on the battlefield seemed a feat of magic, one that he never quite understood, as if she were blessed by some unseen saint or god.

"I'll heal your wounds, and take care of that. Of course, it's deeply unfitting of someone of the house of Rigley, but I shall consider it a moment of _noblesse oblige_. Father always does say that to be a true lady, I must overcome my fear of the commoners."

She lifted her staff, and light enveloped them both until his skin mended. The shallow cuts from the blows he hadn't dodged across his stomach and arms turned to nothing but scars and the memory of pain. Without her here to heal his wounds, he would've long ago joined the hungry ghosts that filled his mind.

"I can't work on your hair with your back to the wall," Clarine said.

For a moment, he considered her. She was flimsy and delicate, so delicate that it was almost ridiculous to see her on the battlefield in her silks and airs. If her staff skills hadn't been so good, she would've been as out of place as a vase of flowers in an armory.

Rutger wiped his sword across his tunic, and sheathed it. There was little danger of a stealth attack with Clarine around. Should any brigand appear, her screams would send knights running.

"Well? You'll have to rest. There's hardly any good chairs here; it makes tea time an awful chore. However, if you follow me, I can find something to make do." She blushed. "Don't think I mean that in an indecent way!"

Rutger was silent for a moment. "If I follow, will you stop screaming?" he said.

"How rude. Is that any way to treat a lady?" Clarine said.

He didn't immediately respond. Ladies, silks, and manners might as well been an entirely different world. All he knew was hate and war; even the happy memories were burned out by the crying of the ghosts.

"...Fine."

She led him to her tent with a slight flush to her cheeks. Far be it from the usual, she'd decked her tent out with as much elegance as she could spare in this war-torn climate. Colorful silks were pinned to the interior, instead of the rough cloth, and a fur rug was laid out beneath her bedroll of down blankets.

"I know it's humble. It's nothing like Papa's favorite manse, but I do my best to bring some sort of beauty into this horrible war."

He didn't respond, and she didn't seem to wait for him to. Perhaps she was simply talking to talk, as if silence might physically harm her. She knelt down and motioned for him to sit before her. This close, he caught her sweet scent, like spring wildflowers.

"Technically, if this were in Rigley, we would have a chaperone, but I believe making you look better is for the army's best interest. Honestly! If you came out at night looking like this, you'd scare poor Wolt and make him think there were ghouls about!"

He didn't respond to her usual fancies and frivolity. Her silks, her manners, it was all so strange that she seemed almost magical, like some kind of magic being his tribe told tales of. Maidens who wove starlight and danced under the moon. If you stole away their looms, they could be tricked into marriage, but if they ever found their looms, they would fly back up to the stars they called home.

An old story, one that always left him a little sad. Caged girls with hair as gold as the sun, always dreaming of moonlight.

She ran the brush through his tangle of hair. He closed his eyes past the memories that surfaced. His mother singing a song of her people. It had been a long time since anything of the past but pain had resurfaced. Maybe even her hands had healing powers, maybe her skills were beyond staves. He didn't flinch when she hit tangles that she had to ease out with her delicate fingers. He'd felt far worse on the battlefield. Blades sunk so deep in his arm that they sliced into his bones and left scars so deep that they would never heal, not even under the light of a staff.

As his hair became less matted, he felt himself almost growing drowsy. He'd forgotten what it was to be calm, for the ghosts to be silenced and to simply _relax_. Each stroke of the brush, each even breath, he fell further into the sort of lands he couldn't even imagine. Everything had been lost in his quest for retribution. Love, happiness, even living.

"There," she said. He felt her pull back his hair into a ponytail. He looked to her handiwork, his red hair soft between his fingers. Wrapped around were soft red ribbons.

"Ribbons?" he said with incredulity.

"They're very much in fashion right now. But that's not all: I prayed over them, and blessed them so they would keep you safe from magical attacks."

Rutger carefully pulled apart the bows. They were soft under his calloused fingers, and already stained with blood. Just touching him had tainted the fragile beauty.

"Y-you're a complete boor! And to _think,_ I tried to help--"

"No need to yell," he said. He tied them both at his wrists, hidden away. "I'm not so cruel that I'd refuse a gift."

"I suppose you don't know anything else. After all, you are a c-c-commoner," she said. She sniffed, not in indignation, but the edge of a sob.

He hated the sound of crying. Weakness and loss, a reminder of everything of his world that had become dust and bones.

"Don't cry," he said. _A corpse like me isn't worth your tears._

"I-I'm not! It's just your clothes are so _dusty_ they're going to make me sneeze, and that's so undignified! I-I'm holding it back!"

"Then I'll go," he said

He nodded to her, the closest he got to thanks, and went back into the dark.

"Wait!"

He paused and turned back towards her.

"Um, keep yourself safe!" she rushed back into her tent, with cheeks as red as the ribbons.

He didn't understand her, but that was a given. They were as different as a Moon Maiden weaving beauty with her loom and a ghost razing the land with retribution.

**Author's Note:**

> Many different cultures have stories of a magical woman who can be forced into marriage by stealing something of hers. It can be a pelt, an orb, or many other artifacts or skins, but in each the story is the same: she eventually finds her way back years later and abandons her husband and children to ascend, or descend back to her homeland.


End file.
